Write To Please One Person

I feel heavy and sore. The words don’t flow as easily as they do sometimes. It’s as if I’m standing at a fork in the road; do I write as a survivor from the depths of my soul, or write to earn.

Why not both?

Writing because the soul demands it, harnessing the opposing griffins of creativity and commerce with an invitation to be strong, kind and benevolent and practical.

It seems a lot sometimes. But that’s just like feeling bloated – often it feels worse than it is.

I feel bloated with effort, inflamed with tender determination. I’m in process and writing is a big part of that healing process. Not just the writing or the structure or the distribution or the validation of an appreciative reader, but all of it – the thinking, the heart, the feels, the action, the experience of taking abstract ideas that won’t be left alone and giving them shape in some reality with words that are seasoned with the sugar and spices of life, with bold and quiet moments, with the knowledge that there is beauty anywhere we feel and say it is, and in times like this, this gives hope to anyone who wants it. Even me.

I’ve been wrestling with novels and life in a new way. Novel means new and noteworthy too. Breast cancer behind me, surgery and rebuilding ahead of me.

I thought I could write myself into a new existence with intention, documenting the rewiring of my mind and the rehabilitation of my body through storytelling – through love stories.

Maybe if I looked into my own eyes and sat silently with the contents of my soul, I could become a better, stronger me – the one I sculpted from all the bits of The Bygone, the one I would set free.